


Laugh? I Nearly Died

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, british au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-22
Updated: 2009-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Sam scanned the article. “Laughed themselves to death?” he read incredulously. “You sure this isn't bogus?”British AU.





	

“Sammy, my boy,” said Dean as he climbed back into the driver's seat of the Jaguar and threw a copy of the Daily Sport into Sam's lap, startling him out of the light doze he'd fallen into whilst Dean was in the petrol station. “I've got us a job.”

Sam picked up the paper, stifling a yawn. They'd been driving south all night, heading away from the interest that the Scottish police had shown in them after a slight confusion in Aberdeen over some murders that had actually been committed by the spirit of a disgruntled Clearances-era crofter.

“Which page?” he asked, opening the paper up and grimacing slightly at the overdone fakeness of the Page 3 girl.

“Page 2,” said Dean. “Opposite Delicious Donna and her pneumatic tits. Mysterious deaths in Portsmouth.”

Sam scanned the article. “Laughed themselves to death?” he read incredulously. “You sure this isn't bogus?”

Dean grinned at him. “I reckon it's a Trickster,” he said, and Sam had to concede that that sounded possible.

“Okay, fine,” he said, dumping the paper in the footwell and shutting his eyes again. “Portsmouth it is. At least we're already headed that way.”

Dean nodded and tapped out the bass line of 20th Century Boy on the steering wheel. “Yeah, you make sure you get your beauty sleep while I do all the driving,” he said, sounding happy enough despite his griping. “Guess we don't want you scaring off all the birds with your ugly mug when we get there.”

Sam snorted and relaxed back against the window. “Git,” he muttered.

“Twat,” returned Dean cheerily.

 

****

 

It was very late when they drove down the M27 into Portsmouth. Dean circled the city a couple of times before stopping at the cheapest budget hotel he could find.

“We're here,” he announced as they pulled into the car park. “It's an Etap, so prepare yourself for massive amounts of concrete.”

“And right next to the football ground,” Sam noted glumly. “Let's hope they're not playing at home this week, or we'll be awake all night listening to drunk hooligans.”

“You will be,” said Dean. “I'm sure I could find a different reason to be up all night.” He loaded 'up' with emphasis and gave Sam a sleazy wink, and Sam wrinkled his nose.

“Why you haven't got Chlamydia yet is probably a bigger mystery than people laughing themselves to death,” he said, getting out of the car.

“You're just jealous you can't find anyone blind enough to touch you with a ten-foot bargepole,” said Dean, getting out as well. He looked around and grinned when he spotted a KFC and a McDonald's just across the road. “Hey, look – choice of dinner!”

Sam groaned. “My arteries hate me,” he said mournfully. “And you,” he added after a moment.

“Bollocks,” said Dean, grabbing his bag out of the boot. “They love me - everyone loves me.” He waited a moment for Sam to grab his own bag, then slammed the boot shut. “Stop whining.”

Sam followed him into the hotel, trying to ignore the clutter of old fag ends and discarded lager cans that littered the half-dead grass near the entrance. “I like whining,” he muttered, too quietly for Dean to hear.

 

****

 

Their room was predictably tiny, and for some reason decorated with orange plastic. The window looked out over the McDonald's, and Sam could smell the burger grease when he opened it. “One day,” he said, shutting it again, “we'll stay somewhere nice, and I'll die of shock.”

Dean came out of the bathroom, where he'd been trying to coax some hot water out of the tap. “Going to university ruined you,” he said. “Turned you into a right prissy girl. It's got free wifi, hasn't it? What more could a geek like you want?”

“Not to catch a flesh-eating virus from the shower?” suggested Sam, but he was already sitting down on one of the beds and pulling his laptop out. He glanced up at Dean and waved a hand at him dismissively. “Well, go bring me food then,” he said.

Dean snorted. “What did your last slave die of?” he asked sarcastically, but he grabbed his wallet and jacket.

“A flesh-eating virus,” said Sam, eyes already glued to the screen. The sooner he got the research done, the sooner they could finish this case and get back on the road, and stay in a completely different hideous hellhole. “Don't let them put a gherkin in my burger,” he added.

“Moan, moan, moan, moan, moan,” muttered Dean as he left the room. Sam ignored him, and typed 'death of laughter' into Google.

 

****

 

By the time Dean got back, Sam had a page of notes scribbled out.

“In 1962 there was an epidemic of laughter in Tanganyika,” he announced as soon as Dean came through the door carrying fast food bags.

Dean twitched an eyebrow and dumped the food down on to the bed next to Sam. “They ever find out why?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “They seem to think it was just a psychological phenomena,” he said. “But I don't think it's the same as what's happening here. No one died in it. There are records of death from laughter, but they're extremely rare – getting several together is unheard of.”

Dean sank down onto the bed and opened up one of the bags, pulling out a burger. “Okay, so what do we have here?” he asked.

“Over the last two weeks, three different people have died of fatal hilarity,” Sam said, shuffling through his notes to find the newspaper articles. “Mrs Joyce Tailor was the first, the Monday before last. She was working behind the bar of her pub at the time. According to witnesses, she just started laughing halfway through pulling a pint, and didn't stop.”

“A pub?” asked Dean, brightening. “Sounds like we'll have to go scope it out. Make sure it's not anything in their beer.”

Sam glared at him, and continued reading out his notes. “Next was Peter Bosworth, a lawyer. He was in his office at the time, and his receptionist said the same thing as the people in the pub. He just started laughing, then died.”

Dean pulled a massive fistful of chips out of his bag and shoved them messily into his mouth. “And the last one?” he asked around them.

“Jane Knowles,” said Sam. “She was having dinner with her family. Her husband asked her to pass the salt, and...”

“She split a rib,” finished Dean. “Yeah, okay. So, any pattern?”

Sam shrugged, and opened his own Macdonald's bag, stomach clenching unhappily at the idea of all that grease and salt. “Nothing I could spot online,” he said.

“Tomorrow we'll have to do some old-fashioned legwork then,” said Dean with satisfaction. “I say we start with the pub.”

“It probably won't be serving till noon,” Sam reminded him.

“I say we start with the lawyer,” said Dean without missing a beat. He swung his legs up on to the bed and switched the TV on, flicking through the four available channels in a couple of moments. “Bugger,” he muttered, “they don't even have channel five.” He settled on some old war film on the BBC, and Sam set his laptop aside with a sigh and settled back as well, watching grainy black-and-white Spitfires dodge white lines of anti-aircraft gun fire.

“Well, at least I'm not going to wake up in the middle of the night to find you wanking while watching a porn channel,” he said.

Dean sighed. “That was one time,” he pointed out. “And I was drunk.”

“You're always drunk,” muttered Sam, but he let it go. The truth was, he hadn't really minded all that much, especially not when you factored in the incredibly girly noise Dean had made when Sam had sat up and demanded to know what he was doing, or the fact that the incident had left Sam with a very clear mental picture of exactly what his brother's dick looked like hard. Not that Sam ever thought about that, of course. He wasn't going down that road, he told himself again firmly. It was a dead end.

“Alpha Delta, this is Echo Bravo,” said a sepia-toned pilot on the screen. “Jerry at ten o'clock.”

“Maybe we should have codenames,” mused Dean. “You can be Juliet Foxtrot. Sounds like a stripper name.” He sniggered.

“And you'd be Whiskey Romeo,” retorted Sam, “because you always need to ply girls with drink before you can pull.”

On the screen, Echo Bravo spiralled down into the sea, trailing smoke. “And you can't even pull when the bird is three sheets to the wind,” said Dean.

“Maybe I'm just looking for more than a drunken hook-up with someone whose name I don't even know,” replied Sam.

Dean shook his head sadly. “Where did we go wrong with you?” Sam ignored him.

 

****

 

The next morning, they put on their 'insurance company' suits, and went to pay the offices of Mainwaring, Wilson and Pike a visit. Peter Bosworth's secretary, Janine, showed them into the office where he had died. She was dressed extremely neatly in a black skirt and white blouse, and her long hair was pinned tightly up.

“It was so strange,” she said to Sam as Dean poked around, trying to find any clues that might have been left behind when they cleaned the room. “He was sitting at the desk, signing a couple of letters he wanted me to send, and he just burst out into laughter and didn't stop.” She looked genuinely bewildered by it, but not overly upset.

“Had you worked for him long?” asked Sam, trying to distract her while Dean pulled out the EMF reader.

“About six months,” she said. “His last assistant moved to Scunthorpe.”

Sam nodded. “And you didn't say or do something that might have set him off? Tell a joke, anything?” he asked. “You won't be in any trouble if you did,” he added.

Janine shook her head. “Oh no,” she said. “Mr Bosworth wasn't the kind of man you joked with.” She thought for a moment. “Actually, before that day, I'm not sure I'd ever heard him laugh. His whole face went red.”

Sam nodded and made a note of that. “And the papers were just routine?”

“Yes,” she said. “They were just about a property sale he was doing the paperwork for.”

Sam met Dean's eyes over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. Dean subtly shook his head, and Sam sighed and put his notepad away. “Well, thank you for your help, Miss Stewart,” he said with a smile.

Janine smiled back, and the sudden appearance of dimples made her seem much more approachable. “Oh, please, call me Janine,” she said. “It's no trouble. Let me know if you need anything else.” There was a slight emphasis on 'anything' that Sam hoped he'd imagined, but that the smirk on Dean's face told him he hadn't.

“Uh, that's okay,” he said. “I'm sure that's everything we'll need to get the paperwork moving on this one.”

Janine looked subtly disappointed, and Dean rolled his eyes. _Freak_ , he mouthed. Sam glared at him and turned to leave the office.

“There was low level EMF activity,” said Dean as they left the building, “but it could just have been all the electrical equipment around the place.” He grinned brightly at Sam. “So we'll have to go to the pub now.”

Sam nodded. “Same cover?” he asked.

Dean thought for a moment. “Is there one that would allow us to get free beer?” he asked.

“No,” said Sam firmly.

Dean made a face. “Then insurance blokes it is.” He added, “Spoilsport,” in an undertone, but Sam pretended he hadn't heard.

 

****

 

The only people in the Ship and Anchor at half past twelve on a weekday were three old men who looked like they never left, and a bored-looking barmaid. She was the wrong side of forty, but squeezed into a tight, low-cut top and wearing enough make-up to sink a battleship. She perked right up when she saw them, and her eyes travelled swiftly over both of them in a way that made Sam feel vaguely molested.

“What can I get you boys?” she asked with a slow, dirty grin.

One of the old guys snorted. “She's never that eager to serve me,” he grumbled.

Dean leant on the bar and grinned back at her. “What kind of bitter do you have?”

Sam kicked his leg. “No drinking on the job,” he hissed.

Dean sighed and straightened up. “Ignore my partner. I'm pretty sure he's got a genetic disorder that makes him no fun.”

The woman laughed throatily, and leaned over the bar further so that even more of her cleavage was on display. Sam took the opportunity to step in and get the conversation back on track. “We're looking for someone to talk to about the death of Joyce Tailor,” he said. “We're from her life insurance company, just checking a few things.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I'll get Mr Harwood.” She disappeared out the back.

Sam took the time to look round the pub. It was the same as any other pub built close to a naval dockyard – old-fashioned, with scarred wooden furniture that had seen better days and a smattering of boat-related memorabilia around the walls.

“I know what happened to Joyce,” said the old man who had spoken earlier. “She was killed by irony.”

Dean leant an elbow on the bar. “How so?” he asked.

“She was always ruining everyone else's fun,” said the man. “Sour-faced old cow. Then she laughed herself to death. She got exactly what she deserved.”

“Were you here when it happened?” asked Sam.

“He's always here,” said one of the other men propping up the bar.

The first old man glared at him. “So are you, Frank,” he pointed out. Frank made a disgusted sound and drank more of his beer. “Yeah, I was here,” said the first bloke to Sam. “We all were.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” asked Dean.

The man shrugged. “She was just getting me another pint,” he said slowly. He downed the last of his current beer. “In fact, I could do with another one now,” he added.

“I'd be happy to get one for you when the barmaid gets back,” said Dean, and the man nodded as if he'd expected no less.

“She was just pulling it,” he continued, “and then she just started laughing and didn't stop. Weirdest noise I've ever heard.” He looked down into his empty glass. “My pint went all over the floor,” he added, slightly mournfully. “Waste of good beer. Then she just keeled over. Doctors said she had a heart attack.”

“I reckon that was as much from surprise as from the laughter,” said Frank. “Suddenly getting the joke like that...no wonder it killed her.”

“What joke?” asked the first guy with a frown.

“I don't know,” admitted Frank, “but it must have been really funny.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances just as the barmaid came back with a harassed-looking man who was wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dirt smudged along the hem.

“I'm the temporary manager, Brian Harwood,” he said. “Can I help you?”

Sam smiled at him. “We're just doing some routine checking up on the death of Mrs Tailor,” he said. “We're from the insurance company.”

The colour leached from Brian's face. “The pub's insurance?” he asked weakly.

“Mrs Tailor's life insurance,” said Sam, and Brian looked relieved.

“Oh, thank god,” he said, then winced. “Uh, I mean...this place has enough problems at the moment, without adding in the insurance company, is all,” he said.

The first old man cleared his throat meaningfully, and tapped his glass on the bar. Dean flashed him an unamused smile, and leant over the bar to the barmaid. “I'd like to buy these two gentlemen a pint each,” he said with a winning smile. She smirked back, and Sam wondered for the millionth time if there was any woman Dean wouldn't flirt with, given half a chance.

“I wonder if you can just tell us anything you can about Mrs Tailor's death,” he said to Brian.

Brian sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I can't tell you much that these fellows probably haven't already told you,” he said, gesturing at the old men propping up the bar. “I wasn't here then – her niece's lawyer hired me afterwards, to run the place while the Will was sorted out.” He glanced distractedly at the barmaid, who was handing the men their pints. “God knows when that'll be now,” he muttered.

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Brian turned back to him. “Didn't you know? Her niece was all set to inherit the whole place, then she died a few days ago, from the same thing.”

“Her niece was Jane Knowles?” asked Dean with surprise.

“Yeah,” said Brian. “So, you can guess that the future of this place is completely up in the air – especially as Joyce was halfway through selling out to Wetherspoons when she died.”

“Selling out?” repeated Sam, his mind whirring. “I don't suppose you know who her lawyer was?”

Brian gave him a funny look, but nodded. “Yeah, it's the same firm as her niece was using. Mainwaring, Wilson and Pike.”

Sam and Dean exchanged significant looks. Dean pulled out his wallet and handed the barmaid a fiver. “Guess that'll be everything, darling,” he said.

“Thank you for your time,” Sam said to Brian. “We'll get out of your hair now.” Brian winced slightly, and Sam 's eyes flicked to his receding hairline. He grimaced slightly in a half-apology.

“Oh,” said the barmaid to Dean, disappointed. “I thought you were staying for some fun, darling.”

Dean shrugged. “Mr Killjoy's probably right. It's not a good idea to insurance under the influence of alcohol.”

“Well, come back anytime,” she said, and gave Dean a theatrical wink and another good look down her top. Sam turned away in disgust.

 

****

 

“So something doesn't want the pub sold,” said Dean as they headed back to the car.

“And you know what that means,” added Sam.

Dean groaned. “We're going to the Records Office,” he said gloomily.

“We'll need the full history of the place,” Sam pointed out.

“You're getting hard just thinking about it,” Dean accused him. “Barely an hour ago, a hot secretary was practically throwing herself at you and it just made you uncomfortable, but the idea of the Records Office is getting you going.”

“Barely ten minutes ago, a barmaid was throwing herself at you,” Sam pointed out, “And yet you're going to the Records Office as well.”

Dean made a face. “I prefer Barbara Windsor in her Carry On years, not her Peggy Mitchell ones,” he said.

 

****

 

The man in the Record's Office managed to dig out an impressively large stack of dusty documents when Sam told him he was doing a local history project on the history of The Ship And Anchor. He and Dean settled down at a table with them and started the long, dull process of going through looking for mysterious deaths or strange incidents.

Dean lasted nearly two hours before he got bored, which Sam was secretly impressed by. He then spent quarter of an hour getting increasingly restless and fidgety before he abruptly stood up.

“Going to have a slash,” he announced, and disappeared for the best part of an hour, during which time Sam managed to wrap up the research.

“Where the hell have you been, slacker?” Sam asked when Dean finally came back.

Dean scowled at him. “I've been doing research,” he said. “This place is the local museum as well – I had a quick look in case there was anything related.”

Sam tried to keep scepticism off his face. “And was there?” he asked.

Dean grinned. “The Who managed to burn down a pier here while filming Tommy. A whole bloody pier! That's rock and roll.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “So, no then,” he summarised.

“Well what did you get?” asked Dean.

Sam shrugged. “Not much. The pub's a couple of centuries old, so there's been a few deaths over the years, but nothing that stood out.”

“No really funny jokes told there?” asked Dean.

Sam shook his head. “Not even that lame one about the Irishman that you always tell when you're drunk.”

“That joke's a classic,” insisted Dean. Sam ignored him.

“I called the lawyers, though,” he said, “and they said that Dan Knowles, Jane's husband, is the one who technically owns the place now.”

Dean groaned. “So he's probably in danger of splitting his sides,” he said.

Sam nodded. “I've got his address. Let's go interrogate him about what he intends to do with the pub.”

 

****

 

Dan Knowles lived in a semi-detached Edwardian house in the north of Portsmouth. Dean rang the doorbell. “Hi,” he said with a smile. “I'm Dean Grant, and this is Sam Naylor. We're with the Portsmouth Evening News.”

Mr Knowles's face closed off. “I don't want to talk about Jane's death,” he said tiredly, and started to shut the door.

Sam put his hand out fast to catch it. “We understand that, Mr Knowles,” he said. “That's not why we're here. Our readers are interested in your plans for The Ship And Anchor. It's an important local landmark.”

Mr Knowles made a disgusted noise. “My wife's just died,” he pointed out. “You think I've spent the last few days working out what to do with everything she's left me?”

Sam back-pedalled. “We're very sorry for your loss,” he said, “and for bothering you at this difficult time, but the destruction of traditional pubs by national chains is an important issue.”

Mr Knowles ran a hand over his face. “Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Look, I don't know anything about running a pub, and it...it doesn't really feel like it should be mine anyway. I barely knew Jane's aunt. If Wetherspoons want it, then they can have it. I don't really care what your readers think.”

There was a sudden chill in the air. Sam glanced at Dean, who gave a tiny nod to show he'd felt it as well.

“Well, thank you for your time,” said Dean, and Sam let go of the door so that Mr Knowles could shut it.

“Great,” said Dean glumly as they headed back to the car. “Guess we're going to have to stalk him, then.”

“That chill,” said Sam, “must be a spirit, right? If we could work out who, we'd just have to salt-and-burn.”

“Well, you're research-boy,” said Dean, leaning on the roof of the car for a second. “You got any ideas who it could be?”

Sam shrugged. “Could be anyone in the last two hundred years who was particularly attached to the pub,” he said. “They might not have even died there.”

Dean tutted sadly. “Again, you let me down,” he said, and opened his car door. “Guess we'll just have to hang out here and hope we catch a clue.”

“And save Mr Knowles,” pointed out Sam.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, and that,” he said as he got into the car.

 

****

 

The next few hours were very boring. After an hour and a half of watching the house and waiting for it to do something interesting, Dean started a game of I-Spy that quickly devolved into an argument over whether or not 'annoying little brother' counted as a 'something beginning with A'. Sam eventually gave up on the whole thing and took to staring out the window and ignoring Dean, who gave a very long-suffering sigh and muttered something about aliens replacing Sam with a robot who didn't know how to take a joke. Sam just pursed his lips and stared harder at the yellow light spilling out from between Dan Knowles' living room curtains.

Ten minutes later, Dean found half a packet of Jaffa Cakes in the glove box that had melted at some stage and then re-solidified into a smooshed-together mess. He ate them with every sign of enjoyment, smearing chocolate over his fingers and round his mouth. Sam upgraded to gritting his teeth, and added 'lick all the chocolate off his lips' to the things he had to stop himself doing to Dean, just slightly above 'choke him senseless.'

When the lights in Mr Knowles's house flickered, another couple of hours later, it was almost a relief. Sam and Dean both leapt out of the car without needing to exchange a word and ran for the front door, pulling out their guns.

As soon as Dean kicked the door in they could hear the laughter, breathless and hysterical-sounding. Mr Knowles was sitting on his sofa, laughing helplessly as if he'd never stop. The TV was showing an episode of The Bill, and Sam was pretty sure that wasn't what he was laughing at. Sam scanned the room quickly but there was nothing he could see that signified a ghost.

“Dean,” he said in a low voice.

“I'm on it,” said Dean, pulling out his EMF reader and switching it on. It immediately started going off loudly, the high-pitched noise cutting through Mr Knowles' laughter. “There's something here,” said Dean needlessly.

“Where?” asked Sam. Mr Knowles's face had started to turn purple, and tears were streaming down his face.

Dean shrugged, and shot randomly into the corner. “Somewhere,” he said, then fired just to the left of his first shot.

Suddenly, Mr Knowles wasn't the only one laughing in the room. The faint shadow of a spirit appeared near the window, its laughter eerily in time with Mr Knowles's. Sam shot at it and it burst into nothing, but Mr Knowles didn't stop laughing.

“Come on, man,” said Dean desperately. “Nothing's that funny. Your wife died, remember?”

“Dean!” hissed Sam, but Dean's callous attitude just made Mr Knowles laugh even harder. Between one peal and the next, he drew in a breath that stuck in his throat and his eyes suddenly grew very large. He grabbed uselessly at his chest, and then collapsed back, very clearly dead.

“Bugger,” said Dean with feeling.

 

****

 

They phoned 999 from a nearby phonebox, then got the hell out of there, driving back into the centre of town as an ambulance went screaming past in the opposite direction.

“So, what do we do now?” asked Sam, rolling his shoulders back tiredly. “Didn't get anything from that that we didn't already know.”

Dean was frowning hard at the road in front of them. “I've heard that laughter before somewhere,” he said slowly. “Just can't remember...” his voice trailed off, and then he lit up with a eureka moment. “Oh, Sammy,” he said, “don't get too excited, but we're going to have to go back to the Records Office.”

Sam sighed and settled back into his seat. “Something to look forward to tomorrow,” he said. “I'll try not to dream about it.”

“No,” said Dean. “We're going right now. Security looked pretty simple – we'll break in.”

Sam gaped at him. “Since when were you so desperate to do research?” he asked.

“I'm not,” said Dean, and he hit the steering wheel. “I just solved the case – I know exactly what we need to burn.” He punched the air. “I'm brilliant,” he added triumphantly, then pushed down hard on the accelerator, zig-zagging around two cars in front of them with a slight squeal of the tires.

“Bloody hell!” said Sam, grabbing at the passenger door handle. “Calm down! You're not The Stig.”

Dean grinned unrepentantly and kept his foot down. “How do you know?” he asked. “The point of The Stig is that no one knows who he is.”

“I think I'd notice if you were popping off each week to film Top Gear,” pointed out Sam.

“That'd be a cool job,” said Dean dreamily. “All those awesome cars you'd get to drive...” He cleared his throat and patted the dashboard. “Course, none of them would be as cool as my baby.”

Sam snorted, but kept his thoughts to himself. He'd learnt long ago not to make any jokes at the expense of the Jaguar in front of Dean.

 

****

 

The Records Office was just as easy to break into as Dean had said. They easily bypassed the alarm, then picked the lock on one of the back doors, keeping their heads down so that their faces wouldn't show up on CCTV.

Inside, they flicked on their torches, then Dean led the way upstairs. They went past an exhibition that seemed to consist entirely of clothes made out of denim, then into a large room filled with reminders of Portsmouth's golden past as a seaside holiday resort.

“This way,” whispered Dean, his voice echoing loudly in the dark museum. He led the way over to a tall wooden cabinet topped by a glass case. Inside, Sam could see a model of an old-fashioned looking sailor.

“What the hell is this?” he hissed at Dean.

Dean ignored him in favour of pulling his loose change out of his pocket and poking through it. “Damn,” he said and looked at Sam. “You got 20p?”

Sam gaped at him. “Dean, what does this have to do with the case?”

“You'll see,” said Dean mysteriously, then made an impatient 'gimme gimme' gesture with his hand. “Come on - 20p.”

Sam sighed long-sufferingly and dug through his pockets until he found a twenty pence coin. “This better be worth it,” he muttered, giving it to Dean.

“Just wait,” said Dean, and put the money in a slot at the side of the case.

The sailor gave a jerk, and then a long, loud peal of laughter rang out and the model began to jolt backwards and forwards as if it had a broken spine. The laughter kept flowing out, filling up the empty museum with slightly psychotic-sounding mirth until Sam was sure the whole city could hear it. He shone his torch on the face of the sailor, who was still madly swaying, and realised with a shiver of horror that its eyes were flicking backwards and forwards as well. When it finally stopped – the laughter suddenly cutting out and the mechanism coming to an abrupt halt – the sailor kept wobbling on his spring for a while.

“Wow,” said Sam in the silence that followed. “That's one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen.” Which, considering his life to date, was really saying something.

“I know,” agreed Dean. “The weird crap they did for entertainment before they had telly.” He shook his head. “But, apart from that, the laughter...”

“Is the same as we heard earlier,” finished Sam.

“Exactly,” said Dean. He shone his torch on the information displayed next to the machine. “It says they recorded a local sailor who had a 'particularly infectious laugh' for this. How much are you willing to bet that The Ship And Anchor was his favourite pub?”

Sam looked back at the model again, which now looked even more sinister. “So we need to find out who he was and burn the corpse?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, I reckon we could just burn this thing and call it a day. Well, a night.”

Sam winced slightly, looking at the glass case and thinking of it being carefully preserved and kept in working order all these years. “It's a cultural artifact,” he said lamely, already knowing exactly how effective that statement would be on Dean.

Dean scoffed. “It's haunted, and creepy as hell,” he said. He pulled a small flask of lighter fuel out of his pocket.

“We can't do it here,” pointed out Sam quickly. “The whole place will go up.”

“And?” asked Dean. “So they lose a bunch of dusty documents and some tacky museum crap? Big deal.”

Sam gaped at him. “Dean,” he started, scandalised, and Dean started laughing.

“Your face,” he chuckled. “Of course we're not going to burn it here.”

The cabinet didn't weigh too much, but it was big enough to need both of them to carry it out of the museum.

“Okay,” said Dean after they'd managed to stash it in the boot of the Jaguar. “Where do you think the locals go to set fire to things?”

Sam thought for a moment. “The beach?” he suggested.

 

****

 

 

The beach was windy and not quite as deserted as they'd have hoped, but they found an empty-enough stretch and unloaded the Laughing Sailor, carefully stepping around the litter as they carried it down the shingle.

“Do you want to do the honours?” Sam asked Dean after they'd put it down.

Dean grinned and pulled out his bottle of lighter fuel again. “Always.”

The wind gusted around them, cutting through Sam's hoodie. He shivered and hefted the shotgun. “Get on with it then,” he said.

Dean made a face at him and started pouring the lighter fuel over the cabinet. “Keep your knickers on, Sammy,” he said.

Something flickered at the edge of Sam's vision, and he turned around slowly, looking hard for any sign of trouble. There was nothing.

“Just want to get it done before we die of old age,” he said, and then was suddenly hit by how ridiculous the whole thing was. He was on a beach in a shitty naval city with his brother, who he lived closer to than anyone should live with anyone, setting fire to an historical seaside attraction in order to stop it killing people with laughter. He could hear laughter on the wind – loud, infectious laughter, and he found himself joining in with it.

“Sam!” called Dean, sounding equal parts annoyed and worried. “Stop laughing.”

Sam laughed even harder. He could barely breath between guffaws, and weakness took over his limbs, making him drop the gun and sink down to his knees.

“Fuck,” swore Dean, and turned back to the Laughing Sailor, rushing to get the salt out.

That was the funniest thing of all – that Sam wanted nothing more than to shag his own brother, that sometimes it was such a struggle not to just reach out and snog him that Sam had to clench his hands into fists and bit his tongue, and Dean had no idea. Sam felt tears squeeze out of his eyes, and tried to catch his breath, but the sight of Dean shaking the salt over the cabinet undid him completely. Salt as a weapon against ghosts – it was ridiculous! How on earth had his life ended up like this?

He could feel the blood thumping in his ears and all his limbs were so weak that they felt like they didn't belong to him. He could hear his laughter echoing up and down the beach as Dean flicked his lighter on and sent the machine up in flames.

There was a flicker as a spirit dressed in naval gear suddenly appeared in front of them, and Sam laughed even harder at the angry look on his face just before he went up in a shower of sparks.

“Okay Sam,” said Dean tensely. “You can stop now.”

Sam really couldn't. He felt like he'd suddenly got some massive, cosmic joke. Everything was funny, from the way the head of the sailor doll fell off as it burnt, to the way the flames lit up the beach and reflected off the sea, and most of all the worry on Dean's face as he fell to his knees in front of Sam.

“Sam!” he said sharply. “Snap out of it!”

Sam kept laughing. The throbbing in his head was getting worse, as if his brain was banging on the inside of his skull, trying to get out, and his lungs were burning with the need for oxygen, but he couldn't take a breath around the laughter. He was going to die here, laughing like a maniac on a scummy beach on the South Coast. The whole idea of it was hilarious.

“Sammy,” said Dean, and Sam couldn't decide which was funnier – the desperation in his voice or the panic on his face. “It's not funny,” he insisted, and then slapped Sam hard.

Sam rocked back with the force of the blow and kept laughing. He wished he had the breath to explain to Dean exactly how funny it all really was.

“Sam,” said Dean again, griping his shoulder and shaking it. Sam could feel ominous shooting pains in his chest, and he wondered if he'd die of a heart attack or suffocation first. Maybe a brain aneurism.

“Sammy,” repeated Dean miserably, then leant forward and kissed him.

Sam's mouth was open with laughter, so the kiss landed on his lower lip, which Dean sucked into his mouth and then bit at, and Sam abruptly stopped laughing so that he could kiss back. Their mouths moved together for several long seconds before Dean leaned back.

“Well, that shut you up,” he said shakily.

“Dean,” gasped Sam numbly. His chest was heaving, desperately trying to take in air now that he'd finally stopped laughing, and he felt dizzy and light-headed. He told himself firmly that that was because of the lack of oxygen, and not the kiss.

Dean looked away, avoiding his eye. “We need to get out of here,” he said. Sam could tell he was already trying to distance himself from the kiss, and his hand went out without thought and fisted in Dean's jacket to stop him pulling away.

“You kissed me,” he said, still breathless.

Den shrugged, and his mouth twisted awkwardly. “It was...” he started, but Sam wasn't going to wait to hear his excuses. He pulled Dean in by his jacket and kissed him, pushing past his automatic protest until he gave in and let Sam explore his mouth.

The shingle of the beach was digging into Sam's knees through his jeans and smoke from the fire was getting in his eyes, but Dean's lips were softer than he'd expected and it was all he could focus on. Dean made a tiny noise that Sam knew he wasn't meant to hear, and tangled a hand in Sam's hair, pulling their mouths even closer.

They both heard the sirens in the distance at the same moment, and pulled apart.

“We need to get out of here,” said Dean again, and Sam nodded.

Dean needed to help him stand up because his legs still felt like jelly from his laughing fit, then they hot-footed it back to the car. Dean drove off fast in the opposite direction to the flashing lights that were heading down the seafront towards them. His driving was erratic on the way back to the hotel – he took corners too fast, and left braking to the last minute at lights. Sam clung tightly on to the handle on his door and didn't say anything, feeling the adrenalin that was doubtless coursing through Dean's veins fizzing through his as well. The anticipation of what would happened when they got back there – if Dean would deny everything, or whether Sam would finally get his chance to touch him – built up in his stomach until he almost felt sick.

 

****

 

When they did get back, Dean immediately started throwing his clothes into his bag. “Pack your stuff,” he growled without looking up. “We need to get out of here.”

“Dean,” started Sam, frustrated.

“They probably saw the car,” interrupted Dean. “We can share and bond later.”

Sam pursed his lips but had to acknowledge that the Jaguar was slightly too conspicuous for them to risk hanging around too long. “Fine,” he said, pulling out his own bag. “But we will talk about it,” he said firmly.

Dean groaned. “Such a girl,” he muttered under his breath.

Sam scowled. “Or we could just act on it some more,” he said. Dean hesitated, mid-way through zipping up his bag. “If that's what you want,” added Sam.

Dean glared at him as if he'd personally insulted him. “Yeah, I want,” he admitted. “Now get your shit together.”

Sam grinned smugly at him. “Then it should be simple,” he said, and zipped up his bag.

“Oh, right,” muttered Dean as they left the room. “It'll be completely simple gay incest. No need to worry at all. Twat.”

“Git,” returned Sam happily. He shoved Dean sideways as they walked down the corridor, and Dean, taken by surprise, fell into the wall. He glared at Sam again, and Sam couldn't stop himself laughing at the look of disgruntled annoyance on his face.

Dean's eyes narrowed and he shoved his bag at Sam, catching him in his gut. Sam let out an 'ooph' noise as the air was knocked out of him, then Dean stepped forward, grabbed Sam's face in both hands and kissed him hard, pushing him back against the wall. Sam put his hands on his brother's shoulders and pulled him close, wondering if they'd ever get round to kissing when he wasn't fighting for breath already.

Dean pulled away. “Sorry,” he said, ducking his head, and Sam couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or meant it. He wondered for a brief moment if this would end up being a mistake, then pulled Dean back in and kissed him again, sliding one of his arms down to Dean's waist and pulling him in closer, until their hips were pressed each other. He couldn't seem to tear himself away from Dean's mouth, which was hot and wet and even more perfect than he'd imagined.

“Sam,” whispered Dean against his lips between kisses. “This is not a good place for this.” His hands were burrowing underneath Sam's shirts, clutching hard at Sam's back as if Dean was never going to let him go, so Sam couldn't really believe his protest was for real. He slide his own hand down the back of Dean's trousers, cupping it around his bum and feeling a thrill that he was finally able to get his hands on Dean like this.

Dean made a deep groaning noise and pushed even harder against Sam, sliding his leg between Sam's and pushing his dick against Sam's thigh until Sam could feel exactly how hard he was.

“I know,” said Sam. “Got to get out of here,” but he didn't let go of Dean either.

“Police coming,” added Dean, then bent his head and sucked hard at Sam's neck.

“Bollocks,” cursed Sam, pushing back against Dean's thigh. “Bloody police.”

Dean laughed breathily and then bit at the point where he'd no doubt left a lovebite. “Think they'd arrest us for arson or incest if they caught us now?”

Sam laughed, and then reluctantly pushed Dean away, pulling his hands out from underneath Dean's clothes. Dean made an unhappy noise, but stepped back.

“We have the worst timing,” he bitched, readjusting his clothes.

Sam picked up his bag where he'd dropped it. “You started it,” he pointed out. Dean made a face at him and picked up his own bag.

“If you kiss me every time I laugh,” said Sam thoughtfully as they headed down the corridor. “I'm going to have to stop watching Have I Got News For You.”

“Or watch it all the time,” said Dean, and gave Sam his best smug, God's-gift smirk. Sam rolled his eyes, but couldn't help smiling back.

 

****

 

The motorway out of Portsmouth was pretty empty at that hour of the night.

“I'll drive for about an hour,” said Dean as they merged onto the A3, “then find somewhere we can stop.”

“Great,” said Sam, watching the South Downs flash by, then letting his eyes fall shut. “Wake me up when we get there.”

Dean snorted and muttered something that sounded like _lazy bastard_ , but Sam ignored him. After all, only one of them had come within a hair's breadth of death by fatal hilarity that evening, and it hadn't been Dean.

 

****

 

When Dean poked him awake, they were parked outside a Travelodge.

“Show a leg, Sammy,” said Dean. “Let's go see what delights this place has to offer.”

Sam blinked at the bland hotel, identical to a million other places he'd stayed in before, and could already picture exactly what their room would look like, right down to the generic print of a flower on the wall.

Dean checked them in, spinning some bullshit about a trip down to Cornwall.

“Cornwall's nice,” said the check-in woman, entering Dean's fake details into her computer database. “I've got a sister who lives down there. Double or twin?” Her glance flickered between them, and it took Sam a moment to remember that her suspicions weren't as inaccurate as they would have been three hours ago. He flicked a look of his own at Dean, and wondered if she could see something between them that hadn't been there before Dean had kissed him.

Dean's shoulders stiffened slightly. “Twin,” he said tersely. Sam tore his eyes away and stared hard at the wall above the receptionist's head. Clearly, falling asleep and leaving Dean time to over-think this thing had been a mistake.

“O-kay,” said the woman, turning back to her computer. “So, are you going for the surfing? I hear it's really good at this time of year.”

“Actually,” said Sam before Dean could start on some tale about them being professional surfers or something, “we're mainly going for the Eden Project. Dean's a bit of a botany fan.” Dean turned and glared at him, and Sam gave him the fondest look he could drag up. “He's been looking forward to this for weeks,” he added. “He just loves plants.”

“Right,” said the woman, sounding not completely convinced, and giving Dean a funny look. “Well, I hear that's great too. I've put you in 315.” She held out the key, and Dean took it from her with a lukewarm smile.

As soon as they were out of earshot, safely behind the lift doors, he turned on Sam. “What the hell was that?”

Sam grinned at him. “Lighten up,” he said. “Just having a little fun. Besides, you do it all the time to me. Remember the thing with the dolls?”

Dean cracked half a smile. “Oh, yeah, that was classic,” he said, then glared at Sam. “It's only funny when it's you, though,” he griped.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Now who needs to learn how to take a joke?”

 

****

 

When they got into the room, Dean hesitated just inside the door and Sam had to push past him to get inside. He noted that the picture on the wall was actually of a generic English landscape, not flowers, and dumped his bag on a bed, trying to ignore the apprehension curdling in his stomach from Dean's attitude change. He crossed to the window and checked the view, but it just looked out over an industrial estate. He could see a Little Chef, and he made a mental note to keep Dean away from it, and to try and find some healthy food sometime in the next twenty-four hours, before they both died of scurvy.

Dean walked slowly over to the other bed, and put his bag down. “Sam,” he said quietly, and the tone of his voice didn't promise anything good. Sam could tell without even turning around that Dean was working himself up for the 'this really isn't a good idea' talk.

“It's pretty late,” Sam said, not waiting to hear what was coming. “We should just go to sleep.” Sam found himself irrationally hoping that if he just staved this conversation off until the next day, he'd be able to come up with some way of just bypassing all Dean's doubts and getting them back to the place where they'd been able to snog in a hotel corridor like teenagers.

“As opposed to what?” muttered Dean, but didn't wait for an answer. “Look, about earlier. It was probably just because of the spirit – endorphins or something. Doesn't have to mean anything.”

Sam turned away from the window and looked at him. “It wasn't endorphins,” he said firmly, “and it did mean something. To me, anyway.”

Dean's shoulders twitched, and he looked down at the floral duvet. “Sam,” he said again, then stalled, lost for words. Sam eyed his clenched fists and remembered how easy it had been when Dean's mouth had been under his, how Dean had been just as eager for it as Sam was.

He stepped forward until he was close enough to touch Dean. Dean tensed up even more, but didn't move away.

“Look,” said Sam, hoping some miracle would give him the right words to change Dean's mind about this. “The way I see it, we can either let this make things really awkward and weird, or we can just go for it and hope for the best.”

Sam sometimes wondered if Dean knew just how much you could tell from his face if you knew what to look for. He watched him visibly waver for a moment, then clench his jaw.

“Or we could just forget the whole thing,” Dean said.

Sam shook his head. “That's just the first one with a different name. I couldn't forget about this now.” He hesitated, then added, “I don't think you could either.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Sammy,” he started again, in a hoarse voice, and Sam gave up on trying to reason with him and just kissed him instead. Dean was frozen still for a moment, then responded, his mouth opening beneath Sam's as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Sam grabbed at his jacket and pulled him closer, and Dean suddenly broke away with a little gasp, and took a step back.

“Sam,” he growled. “We can't do this.”

Sam sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Come on, Dean,” he said, frustrated, “you clearly want to. Why shouldn't we?”

Dean gave a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “In case it's slipped your mind, Sam,” he said, “we're _brothers_.”

“I'm not going to ever forget that,” said Sam, stepping closer to Dean again. “I just don't think it matters – it doesn't make any difference to me.” Dean turned slightly away, and Sam could see he wasn't getting through. “I want this, Dean. I want you. Being brothers is part of it, somehow.” He made a face at how that had come out. “I don't know how to explain it,” he said.

Dean was still looking away across the room, but he cleared his throat and said, in a very quiet voice, “You don't have to. I get it.”

Sam grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back round. “Then it shouldn't matter,” he said fiercely. “It's only up to us, right?”

Dean looked up at him, and Sam could see indecision hovering on his face. He kept a tight hold on Dean's shoulder and waited to see which way this would go, trying not to hold his breath.

After what felt like the longest minute of Sam's life, the tension of indecision fell away from Dean, and his shoulder relaxed under Sam's grip. “Well, if you're going to get all wound up about it,” he said, “I guess...”

Sam didn't wait for him to finish his sentence, pulling him in and kissing him hard. Dean didn't hesitate for a second this time, bringing his own arms up to pull Sam closer to him. Sam smiled against his mouth, happiness rushing through him faster than the spirit's fake mirth had earlier. This was going to be brilliant.

**Author's Note:**

> The Laughing Sailor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvClHRq0X_o


End file.
